


The Cure for Madness (Jarik's tales)

by orphan_account



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dark Brotherhood Questline, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-11-01 23:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20547815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A recounting of the cure for madness quest in the dark brotherhood quest line, with my nordic vampire dragonborn, Jarik. Expanded on the dialogue from in game to explore some different themes and emotions during the quest.





	The Cure for Madness (Jarik's tales)

Jarik could barely feel the frigid Skyrim snow through his pitch black armor. The folds of intricate woven metal in the hood and boots kept him dry. His fingers did not feel the frost at all, for they were already dead.

  
He had ridden hard and fast through Kyne’s elements. It was a straight line cut through the middle of the province, from near the southern border right up to the northern coast. He was amazed that the mad jester had ran this far and still lived, especially considering the hunter running behind him.

  
The falling rain had turned into hard snow as he traveled northward. “This must be that beautiful Skyrim weather I’ve always heard about.” He said, chuckling as he thought about the woman who had taught him that ancient nordic idiom.

  
As he rode forward a faint black robed figure, cloaked in shadow, followed him. It looked at him with extreme focus and intent, ready for action.  
A howling mix of whimpers and words beckoned Jarik when he dismounted his red-eyed horse.

  
“Should’ve ... figured … Astrid ... would send you.” The wolf said as he crumpled up on the white, blood covered ground. The hot crimson drops of life’s liquid bounced when they touched the cold white snow. He writhed around in the dirt harshly as he struggled to become a man once more. Finally, the long white hair and beard of Arnbjorn could be seen.

  
“You’re hurt.”

  
“What gave it away?” Arnbjorn laughed softly and gripped his side, tightly to hold in the blood. “Yeah, gotta admit that little jester is good with that butter knife. But don't worry, I gave as good as I got.”

  
“That butter knife is an incredibly deadly blade: a dagger lined with an ebony edge. I’m amazed you’re still talking.” Jarik had seen the jester’s weapon before, it had been fastened loosely on his belt when he had first arrived with the Night Mother’s coffin, some months ago.

  
Jarik kneeled down to get closer. He reached into one of his side pockets and pulled out a small red bottle and handed it to the wounded man. “Drink up.” He commanded.

  
“Thanks, beef roast.” Arnbjorn quickly gulped down the bottle’s contents. “I see you took my wife’s horse.” He said, motioning to the mount as dark as night.

  
“She said I needed to travel as fast as possible to find you.”

  
Arnbjorn smiled broadly and closed his eyes as he heard the words. Jarik hadn’t seen him smile that way, ever.

  
“Where is he?” Jarik asked after a few moments, giving Arnbjorn some time to feel the effects of the healing potion.

  
“In there - Through the door. Some old sanctuary, by the looks of it. I would have followed him, but I don't know the phrase.”

  
“A cornered rat then.” Jarik mused as he gazed at the black door that sealed the entrance to the ancient sanctuary inside. The dark shade next to Jarik shuddered softly. He could have sworn he felt the air around the figure almost bend and crack as it spoke.

  
“The Keeper is a sacred position within the Dark Brotherhood. Ask yourself: do you trust the wisdom of our Lady?” The spectral shade said, in a voice that was near a whisper. It was next to him, almost right in his ear, but also impossibly far away.

  
He did not have an answer to the spectre’s query. Once Arnbjorn looked reasonably well enough, Jarik got up and walked over towards the dark entryway. “I know the phrase. I'll get Cicero - you go home.”

  
After a pause Arnbjorn rose to his bare feet, slowly and still in pain. “All right, you convinced me. Doubt I'd be much good to you, anyway.” He pointed to the blood covering the ground where they stood. “The little fop cut me pretty deep. But I slashed him good. Pretty sure I severed an artery. Don't know what you're going to find in there... but you can probably just follow the blood, it’s for sure not all mine.”

  
Jarik nodded and turned back to the black door. Somehow it was still colder than the frigid tundra around them. He knocked and it spoke slowly and dreadfully, as if every word took enormous effort.

  
“What is life’s … greatest illusion?”

  
“Innocence, my brother.” Jarik responded with the words he had memorized from Cicero’s journal.

  
The door opened with a shuddering boom. He was in the rat’s den now.


End file.
